


I just wanna be the girl you like

by crookedspoon



Series: Exchange Fics [42]
Category: Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Always a Different Sex, Banter, Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, Female Jason Todd, Rule 63, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-27
Updated: 2019-08-27
Packaged: 2020-09-28 02:57:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,578
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20418764
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crookedspoon/pseuds/crookedspoon
Summary: Dick can be an opinionated and manipulative prick sometimes, but Jay thinks he makes up for it by being damn good in bed.





	I just wanna be the girl you like

**Author's Note:**

  * For [redbelles](https://archiveofourown.org/users/redbelles/gifts).

> Many thanks to Kess for all the support and talking through this, and to empires for supplying some very delicious images that I couldn't resist including but also couldn't do justice. :')

The thing that Jay never understood about Dick Grayson is why everyone likes him. Oh sure, he's so very charming, pretty like a picture, a natural born leader, yadda yadda. Of _course _everyone would fall head over heels for him. But no one seems to see what a judgmental, manipulative _dick _he can be.

Or maybe it slips their mind after a while. Because he's just so charming.

And damn good in bed.

"You know you can stay the night, right?" Dick says and pats the mattress in front of him, smoothing out the rumpled sheets.

He's lying on his side, mussed head propped up on his elbow, modesty just barely covered, looking for all the world like a nude model waiting to get his snapshots taken. _Tilt your head up to the left, purse your lips, give me more of that heat. Show me your passion. Show me you want me. Yes, good, that's spectacular! Now roll onto your back..._

"I know," Jay replies simply, pulling her hair into a high ponytail.

Like she wants to stay any longer with him than she has to. (She does.) 

Does he feel benevolent when he offers her this? Does it make him feel good about himself? _Look, I'm reaching out to the black sheep of the family. I'll get her to eat from my hand yet, and then she'll return to the fold, you'll see. _What would he even do if she decided to stay? Would that give his ego a boost, or would he be wary about her killing him in his sleep?

He knows as well as she does that they're toxic for each other, and that spending time together will only make their resentment for each other grow. They might be okay for as long as they don't talk, but a stray word, a thoughtless comment will, inevitably, set either one of them off again. Sex doesn't change that. It's nothing but a temporary truce.

"Will I see you at the gala?"

Jay stomps her foot into her boot and yanks the laces tight. "I don't have an invitation."

"I happen to have it on good authority that you do."

"I burned it, okay?"

"You could be my plus one."

"Don't get clingy."

"I'm just saying. I'd love it if you came." 

_Liar._

He smiles at her, then rolls onto his stomach to hide his smile against his crossed forearms, secretive, as if he knows what she's thinking.

That's the thing about Dick Grayson. He's a good actor. He can lie with a straight face and make you think he's sincere about it.

And the thing about Jay? Well, she's known liars all her life. Sometimes, you need to lean into their lie a little and pretend you believe them. They'll slip up eventually, no matter how good they are. And Jay will be ready with a curved blade in hand.

To end it the same way it's begun.

It was just last winter. A string of prostitute murders that turned up by the docks had caught Jay's attention, and she... she's not proud to say that she hadn't been taking good care of herself at the time. She'd followed lead after lead doggedly for weeks, always hoping to prevent the next murder if she just worked fast enough, but she'd always been too late in the end.

It destroyed her not to be able to _do _anything to protect them all. Whenever she patrolled one spot, a woman would get taken from another. It felt like a personal failure. It felt _personal._ Not least because she knew those women; they had kept an eye out for her when she'd been living on the street as a kid. Losing them _hurt._

By the time she found the perpetrator – one of Falcone's more unstable hitmen – her hold on her sanity had become a tenuous thing. The guy had known how to cover his tracks, though not well enough. She'd sniffed him out eventually, but again too late.

She remembers blood, a lot of it. Bruises on the woman's face and a gash in her neck. A few feet beside her, the man with the same wounds, and many more besides. 

A hand around her fist had stopped her from plunging her kris into the perp's chest yet another time. It was littered with multiple stab wounds already. A voice called to her through the static of her haze, pulling her slowly out of it.

Her gloves had been slippery with blood around the handle of her kris and that was the only reason Nightwing escaped having his throat slit as well. That, and his quick reflexes.

"Hood, what is wrong with you?" he'd asked, stopping the blade with his reinforced gauntlets. 

"Scum like him always think they can do what they want and get away scot free," she'd hissed, blood spatters obscuring her visor.

"Jay, this isn't like you." 

"Don't act like you know me," she'd spat, blood singing in her veins, demanding that more be spilled. "You have no _idea _what I'm like."

"I know that you were Robin once, and that that meant something to you."

"I left that mantle behind the moment I died."

The ensuing fight between them had been neither balanced nor brutal. Nightwing just didn't engage her, parrying and blocking her every advance, and Jay was bitter about the irony in that. She just could never touch him.

"Give me the chance to _get _to know you," he'd said, catching her wrist in an iron grip.

"You never cared about me before, why would you care now?"

"I want to help you, Jay." 

"Don't fucking say my name!"

Their test of strength ended with Nightwing as the champion and her dagger clattering to the ground. He kicked it away while she cursed. _Still not strong enough to compete._

She could have broken out of his hold, which barely deserved the name at all. It was just his hand around her fist, his arm hooked around hers, his legs poised to trip her.

"What the fuck are you even doing here?" she'd snapped. "This is not your town."

"Told you. I just want to help you."

"You'd help me by staying out of my way."

Yanking her hand back, she headbutted him, then sent him skidding backwards with a front kick.

He stayed low, wary, expecting her to lunge any second.

"I can't do that."

"Then I'll _make _you."

She lunged. He blocked and parried each of her strikes easily, despite her greater reach. It's always been a trade-off with balance, and in a fight with Grayson, balance is key. He'll use his acrobatics and momentum against his opponents.

In the end, he took her down so hard her helmet cracked. Even with the padding, her head spun.

Face-down, she pulled it off with a deep-seated groan, hair falling out of its loose twist around her ponytail, and threw it to the side. Blood from a head wound was trickling down her temple.

Without her helmet's filters, the smell of rotting fish and garbage wafting from Gotham Harbor made her nauseous.

Dick crouched over her to let her turn around and sit up, every muscle in his body coiled to give her a repeat performance if she didn't behave. She'd rather not risked getting whiplash; her vision had already been wobbling. Scrambling out from under Dick she took the hand he offered and they both stood up.

This close, with her nose almost brushing his hairline, the harbor stench no longer seemed so pungent. Instead, the smell of sweat and Kevlar filled her nostrils, along with the softer scent of Dick's floral shampoo. Jay sucked in a breath as something in her chest tightened.

"Jay," he said softly. 

In another lifetime, there had been many forlorn days at the manor spent crawling into Dick's bed after yet another brutal training session in which she failed to meet Bruce's impossible standard. The pillows had seemed so inviting and she'd pressed her face into them like the pathetic little girl she was, wondering if her perfect predecessor had ever struggled like she did.

"Tell me how I can help you."

Surely not. He was perfect. Everyone always said so. Even Bruce kept comparing her dissatisfactory performance to him.

And she'd believed him.

"Kiss me," she said, steel in her voice. She hates how womanish she sounds without the modulation her helmet provides.

"What?" Dick flinched back as if struck across the face. It should not have come as a surprise, a reaction like that. And yet, it stung. 

"Fine, then don't." 

It was exasperation and shame that had made her turn away from him, but he didn't let her leave.

"I thought you hated me," he'd said, his hand seemingly warm on her shoulder even through their protective layers. It must have been the friction of the material, nothing else.

"I do," she admitted. "I _hate _you."

There had been no need to elaborate any further. When you hate someone, you hate someone. End of story. And yet it all seemed so much more complicated than that.

"Because I've always liked you."

At that point, denying her lifelong crush on Dick Grayson any longer had seemed futile. No sense in prolonging the pain, in putting off the inevitable rejection. Her feelings had remained steadfastly stubborn just like herself and were, at this point, unlikely to go away by themselves anymore. She had to do something drastic to finally be rid of them.

Dick, as usual, did not make it any easier on her.

"Is that true?" 

"Fuck," she'd cursed, resolutely not looking at his face. She didn't want to see the disgust on it. "What do you want me to say? Deny it? Fall at your feet and confess my undying love for you just so you can make fun of me?"

To her great shock, Dick cupped her cheeks and cut her short with his mouth on hers.

It was as if Dick had picked up her dagger and rammed it straight into her heart.

Even dying had seemed easier. Less painful.

But just like dying, this seemed inevitable, too, like Jay had no choice about it. (She did, and she chose not to back out, but instead to ignore the ache and the thrill, and roll with it.)

Her blood-soaked glove skidded over his neck, fingers curling into the wet strands at Dick's nape, as he kissed her. As he actually kissed her. His lips on hers were softer than she'd imagined, soft like a girl's, and it was another thing she had been self-conscious about; her own felt harsh against them, dry and scraping, even as his tongue flicked over them, begging access to her mouth.

She had been too overwhelmed not to give it, if only for a moment before pushing back.

Their legs barely supported them as they stumbled backwards, crashing against the rough stone of a warehouse. Dick had gripped Jay's leather jacket.

"I'd never make fun of you, Jay."

"Seems like you're doing just that." Her voice was rough, pushing past the hurt.

He'd run the pad of his thumb against her bottom lip and said, "I want you to come with me."

There had been no hesitation in her. Why deny herself if he offered? If he wanted to 'help' her so badly. Not like she had anything better to do than dumping bodies. She could agonize about it some other time.

"Yes," she'd agreed.

And like a magic word, it had opened the door to his chambers, and to his bed.

She never asked him why he did it; didn't need to. It was obvious: he thought he was giving her something she had always wanted, and that by giving it, he could bind her to him, like a string around his little finger.

_Nice try, Boy Wonder._

He should have known that she would not have been that easy. That she wouldn't fall for his act that readily. That she had indeed been the one manipulating him into doing this.

A connection to the family is a good tool to have, however fragile, if for no other reason than to know what they're doing and who they are investigating. Jay would have preferred to have access to Oracle, but Babs is too suspicious of her. Understandably.

His gaze is still on her as she secures her thigh holsters and tugs them into place. His fingers leave impressions on his forearms as if he were keeping himself from reaching out to touch.

"I'll pick you up at eight," he says.

"Don't bother," she replies, although they both know that, informants being what they are, she has more to gain by being at the gala, with out without him. 

With him, however, might be more fun.

Jay detests social events with a passion. Fake people talking about fake things or how well they are acquainted with the accomplishments of others. The self-congratulatory tone they take as they drone on and on about their business venture or the latest safari they have been on. The lavish extravagance that fills the room from the crystal goblets of champagne that are making the rounds to the crystal chandeliers above that shine on all the worthless gold and silver.

And all that while people are cold and starving outside.

Though perhaps what she detests more than the events themselves is the dress code required for them. Unlike high society ladies who subsist on a diet of pills and one salad leaf per day for added crunch, Jay does not have a delicate, thin-waisted physique. She is broad-shouldered and square and towers over most men. Heels only emphasize that fact. Besides, they aren't tactical. You can hide a thin knife in the sole and you can use them as a stabbing tool when the situation calls for it, but making a quick dash is all but impossible in them. 

And don't get her started on the purses. They make for an awkward quick draw, and the limited capacity of her .22 is going to be the death of her in a shootout with multiple targets. She still carries a SIG strapped to her thigh for backup, but her wide, flowing skirts weren't meant for access to concealed weaponry. At least she can deliver a good kick in them.

She lets herself into Dick's penthouse with the keycard she'd swiped from his pocket some time ago. The place is, as expected, a mess. Haphazardly thrown clothes decorate the backs of chairs and sofas, litter the floor, and yes, even dangle from one of the ceiling lights.

Miraculously, some had even made it on his person.

"You came," he says, a brilliant smile just shy of smug brightens his already sunny features – they remain sunny despite the frustrated struggle with his bow tie.

_Not yet,_ she thinks, and going by the crinkle in his eyes, he knows. "Don't flatter yourself, Grayson. It's not you I'm here for. It's information."

"You don't need to explain yourself. I'm just glad you could make it. I was just about to leave."

Watching him grapple with his bow tie is like watching a puppy fall over a ball instead of pushing it with its snout. She decides to take pity on him.

"Good luck weaving through traffic at this hour and making it to my door on time."

"What would you have done if I'd already been on my way?"

The look she gives him expresses exactly how likely she thinks that would have been even if she'd been half an hour late. "There's no shortage of rich guys needing young women to hang off their arms and tell them lies all evening."

Once done straightening his bow tie, she's struck with a sudden awkwardness and doesn't know what to do with her hands. She brushes them over Dick's shoulders.

"I'd prefer it if you're _my _arm candy." His eyes take on a predatory glint as one hand slides around her waist while the other gently touches her arm. "You don't even have to say a thing."

"I know how much you like me silent."

"If the answer is, 'not at all, actually,' then you're correct." His hand is warm against her low back as his hips brush against her and sway, as if leading her into a slow dance. "I love it when you scream my name."

"I have never once screamed your name outside of battle."

"Gotta try harder, then." He smiles up at her, and it's a thing of unabashed beauty. "Because I'd love it if you did."

"Maybe in your dreams you might be so lucky, Grayson."

"Am I dreaming, then? Since the lady of my dreams is right here in my arms."

"If you're going to sweet-talk me, we might as well move on to the gala, so you'll have an audience that may even think you're not tedious."

His fingers are a light caress that travels up the length of her arm. His other hand is on the move, too.

"I was hoping we could show up late and have ourselves a ball here."

"You asked me to be your plus one, now let me be your plus one." Her smile is sharp when she pinches his cheek. "Don't want to deprive these harpies of their second-favorite Gothamite."

"Are you going to make me wait all night?" he asks, rubbing his cheek, almost hurt.

"I can make you wait all year if you don't keep your hands to yourself."

Jay was wrong. She detests the events themselves more than the required wardrobe. Perhaps a quick romp between the sheets would not have gone amiss. Except that she does so hate wrinkles. And doing her makeup again.

Or perhaps she really should have picked herself a different escort. Someone less... high profile. They drive into the garage of the building to avoid the cameras in the front and their hungry flashbulb grins. Not only Gotham tabloids are interested in who will be at Richard Grayson's side. He's the hottest bachelor of the season – well, of any season – and the ladies far and wide will heave a sigh in relief when they see that the woman on his arm has the looks of a bodyguard rather than a love interest.

The usual introductions are heard and repeated as they make their rounds through the crowd.

She quickly locates her source and slips into a conversation about equestrianism – the signal. They have a thumb drive that they slip into Jay's purse. Information about Falcone's capos and their whereabouts, if Jay is lucky. Falcone has long since become a retired player in the Gotham underground, but his capos are still running their side ventures and punish anyone who doesn't fall in line. All while being clandestine about it.

Jay may have inadvertently started a gang war by killing that rabid dog of a man and not disposing of him properly so he wouldn't be found. The instances are few and far between, a few burnings here, a few garottings there, just enough to leave a trail when you know what you're looking for. She is going to put a stop to it, once and for all.

In her giddy sense of triumph, she momentarily forgets she shouldn't be drinking like a sailor and empties her champagne flute.

Little by little, she edges toward the exit, without seeming like that's what she's doing. She can't wait to be out of here and analyze the data for anything useful.

Before she makes it out, however, someone collides with her and splashes their drink onto her cleavage. It's black and no one will notice the stain, especially since she's leaving anyway, so she settles for seething quietly. Until she notices who it is. Then she seethes openly.

"There you are, darling," Dick singsongs with a slight slurring of his speech. Is he still using that ham-fisted trick to make people underestimate him? "Sorry about that."

"Thanks for the invitation, Dickiebird, but I'm outta here."

"Take me home?" he says with a wide grin and leans his weight against her. "I've already notified the driver."

She has no choice but to catch him. A part of her would have liked to let him fall flat onto his nose, but he's giving her an opportunity to be seen leaving with him, which is as much out of self-preservation as it is to let her remain relatively anonymous. If she'd left by herself, questions would have been raised and the gossip columns all over the county would have been speculating as to who she was and what juicy things had happened to make her vanish from the venue without Dick.

With him, however, they're like every other couple, even if she's carting him off like a bodyguard their drunk boss. It makes for an amusing anecdote, but nothing more.

"I'm pretty sure there's a virus on the drive he gave you," he says as they're waiting for the car. The occasional paparazzi are stationed here now too, and so they stay just inside the building.

"You don't know that."

"No, but I know him. He was one of Blockbuster's errand boys back when Rollie was still running the scene in Büdhaven. I doubt he's out of the life."

"That double-crossing son of a bitch, I'll fucking—" How had she not seen that? The shifty eyes and the nervous feet. She'd chalked it up to being her informant. That conniving bastard.

"You'll fucking do no such thing." Dick grabs her arm before she can stalk back inside, murder and mayhem on her mind.

"You can't stop me."

"Don't make me show you that I can and will."

He slams her back against the wall and she is just about to retaliate when their car appears outside. She curses.

"Cheer up," he says with a nasty grin. "We're almost out of here. You can still wreck me on our way to my apartment."

"If there weren't reporters outside ready to immortalize the incident, I'd knee you in the gut and throw you over my shoulder."

"Save that for later."

With a twinkle in his eyes, he throws an arm around her waist and resumes his impression of an intoxicated socialite. Jay shields herself with her purse as they make it to the car.

No sooner are the doors slammed shut behind them that he kisses her. Flashes are going off outside the blacked out windows and it's like she can feel the driver's eyes through the drawn-up partition, but it's not enough to stop her from kissing him back.

His hands smooth over her waist and her sides, on a slow but inexorable trail toward her breasts.

"God," Dick breathes against her neck. "I wish I could stay mad at you but your tits are too perfect."

Perfect, her ass. They're heavy and big and cumbersome, and more than once she's thought about a double mastectomy because they tend to get in the way of battle if they're not properly supported and secured. He cups them almost reverently, peppers kisses onto her skin, and laps at the dried champagne he'd spilled there earlier.

"_You _are mad at _me? _That's precious."

"I'm just trying to look out for you," he says, but the effect is kind of marred with him rubbing his face against her chest.

"Gee, thanks, but I can take care of myself."

"I know you can, but I really wanna take care of you now."

He tugs down her dress so that her breasts spill out of her bra. She feels exposed, but he makes her forget about it nearly in the same instant. Sparks of electricity shoot through her as he sucks a nipple into his mouth and twists the other between thumb and forefinger. Sharp pleasure zips straight to her core and she rocks her hips against him, seeking some sweet friction.

Perhaps he misunderstands, or perhaps it's exactly what she's trying to tell him, but he sinks down to the floor in front of the seats and runs his hands up her legs, sliding up her skirts to her knees. With one last cheeky grin that's tinged red from her lipstick, he throws them over his head and disappears beneath them. 

He crowds in between her thighs and she opens them just enough to accommodate him. The next instant, his fingers are a warm pressure against her inner thighs as he spreads her just a little wider. His head is so close to where she needs it and she is not in the mood to prolong this needlessly.

After what happened at the gala, she really needs something good tonight. And Dick's tongue is _very _good.

It occurs to her too late that he might have been lying about the contents of the thumb drive and her informant. He hadn't let her go to confront him and confirm, after all. But by the time the thought manifests, he's flicked his tongue over her moist panties already and she decides she doesn't want to think about it any longer. At least not for now.

His tongue is entirely too perfect as if it was made to worship her. Because that is what it feels like. He doesn't take, doesn't push, but instead takes his time, responding to every hitch of her breath and twitching of her hips to slowly peel back the layers of her resolve.

They arrive at the penthouse entirely too soon. She's so close but not quite there yet. 

She has no choice but to go up with him if she wants to see this through. And she wants to. Fuck, but she wants to.

They grind against each other on the elevator ride up, his nose all but buried in her cleavage, and when he hikes up her leg, she thinks he's almost ready to take her right there. She's almost ready to take him herself.

She eyes the floor numbers with impatience as they each light up in turn.

They don't make it far inside the apartment. She has just chance enough to kick off her heels before he slams her back against the door and kisses her again. He has to strain upward to reach her mouth and it doesn't seem to bother him that she doesn't bend down to make it easier on him. Instead, he slides his hand from her buttock to her knee, lifting it up to his waist and pushing her skirts out of the way.

From his pocket, he takes out a foil package and it crinkles as he rips it open. Jay's panties snag on her holster, so she opts for sliding sliding just one leg out of them before Dick takes her and the elastic waistband would bite into her skin. 

They both groan when he enters her. It's like coming home after a long, tiring day to the comfort of one's own place, but better. It has nothing to do with homes, or families, or even what they think of each other the rest of the time. This is just about them and what they need from each other right this moment. Everything else can be sorted through when she gets around to it.

For now, she just wants to bask in having Dick's attention all to herself.

It's worthwhile, after all. Because in the end, he does make her scream his name that night.


End file.
